Wish You Were Here
by allthingsdecent
Summary: House crashes Cuddy's beach vacation.
1. Chapter 1

Wish You Were Here

**This story is about as breezy and rom-com-ish as I get, which is saying a lot. The idea came from a prompt from my girl gnortn, who wanted to see House and Cuddy on the beach. Season 3ish. It was getting long, so I'm splitting it into 2 parts. Hope to post part 2 later today or tomorrow. xo, ATD**

"So when were you planning on telling me?" House said, folding his arms.

Cuddy looked up from the mound of paperwork she was sifting through, sighed a bit.

"Tell you what?" she asked.

"That you were going on vacation?"

"Because I wanted to avoid the reaction I'm about to get in 3. . .2. . ."

"Who's the lucky fellow?" House said.

"1 . . . There is no lucky fellow, House."

"Don't tell me you're going on vacation alone Cuddy. Not even you are that pathetic."

"It so happens that I'm going with my sister Julia, her husband, and their two kids."

"I was wrong," said House. "You _are_ that pathetic."

"It's not that bad," Cuddy said, defensively. "I love my sister's family. And I'll have plenty of me time."

"Me time when the kids are . . . on the beach?" House probed.

Cuddy raised her eyebrows, didn't answer.

"Hitting the slopes?"

"Nice try," she said.

"Taking a donkey to the bottom of the Grand Canyon?"

"I'm not telling you where I'm going on vacation, House."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll just find some way to twist it and use it against me."

"That doesn't sound like me," House said. "Much."

"Uh huh."

"Is this vacation really necessary?" House said.

Cuddy made a pouty face in mock sympathy.

"I know it's tough to lose mommy for 7 days House. But I have it all lined up for you. If you have administrative problems, you can talk to Dr. Cavanaugh. If you want to yell at someone, you can re-yell at your staff—it's all just white noise to them at this point. And if you want to compliment someone's ass, Nurse Jeffrey has graciously volunteered to be my proxy."

House smiled, amused. Then he said, 'That's not what I meant. I meant, a vacation is not necessary because vacations are for _relaxing_—something you are physically incapable of doing."

Cuddy took the bait.

"I can too!" she said.

"You're more tightly wound than a fly fish reel," House said. "Give me one example of you relaxing."

"I do yoga!" Cuddy sputtered.

"You do yoga because you _can't _relax. You need to carve out a specific time of the day to _force _you into relaxation."

"I relax after work," Cuddy sniffed. "You just don't see it."

"You're glued to your Blackberry after work. Or on your computer. Or _wishing_ you were on your computer. Face it Cuddy. . . your life is your job and your job is your life and this vacation is just going to drive you slowly insane. As a friend, I'm telling you: Cancel now."

"As a _friend_?" Cuddy said.

"Yes."

"Your concern for my wellbeing is touching House. But if it's all the same to you, I'm going to try to muddle through my vacation, painful as it may be."

"Have it your way," House said, with a shrug. "Take a picture of yourself in a bikini. Or. . .a really tight ski sweater. Or while riding a donkey. And by riding a donkey I mean. . ."

"Go away, House."

"Miss you already."  
######

The Grand Cayman Islands Beach Resort and Spa had access to a private beach, which suited Cuddy just fine because she hated crowds.

She lay back in her beach chair. She was on her own for the day—Julia, Michael and the kids were on a nature hike.

The cabana boy brought her a frothy frozen pina colada and fresh towels. The sun was nourishingly warm. She closed her eyes. Then opened them.

Shit! She really needed to get going on that grant proposal for clinic funding the minute she got back from the trip. She had a few ideas. . .maybe she should jot some down . . .

_Relax, Lisa. The proposal can wait._

She closed her eyes again, listened to the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore. A seagull cawed. A few more minutes passed. . .

Huh. Had she been firm enough with legal about the hospital's position on that class action lawsuit? She really needed to stress that the hospital assumed no liability for those malfunctioning stents.

_Calm down . . .you were firm._

She took a sip of her pina colada, tried to banish all Princeton Plainsboro thoughts from her head.

But. . crap. . .was that hospital fire drill scheduled for this week or next?

_Better call Nurse Regina, just to make sure._

She rifled through her beach bag for her Blackberry. As she searched, a cloud blocked the sun, enveloping her chair in a large shadow.

She looked up, squinted in disbelief.

"Fifteen whole minutes before you went for the Blackberry, Cuddy . . .Impressive," a male voice said.

Turns out, the dark cloud hovering over her was none other than Dr. Gregory House.

He was wearing baggy board shorts, flip flops, an unbuttoned Hawaiian style shirt, and an annoyingly self-satisfied grin.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said.

"Surprise!" he said.

"How did you even find me?" Then she shook her head. "Wilson is so dead."

"Don't blame Wilson, blame yourself for emailing him your itinerary. As if I couldn't easily guess that his password is CaringDoc1."

"Why are you here, House?"

"Love the bikini, Cuddy," he said, leering at her. "I prayed for a nude beach, but what you're wearing leaves so little to the imagination, it's the next best thing."

Rather hastily, Cuddy grabbed one of the towels the cabana boy had brought her and covered herself.

"Don't be like that," House said. He dragged over a reclining beach chair that was several feet away, and placed it so close to hers, they touched. "If we're gonna be beach buddies, you better get used to me seeing you in a bikini. By the way. . . I'm totally okay with you ogling my hot pecs."

"I'm actually _dressing _you with my eyes, House," Cuddy said. This was patently untrue. Cuddy had trained herself not to lust after House when he wore those snug t-shirts at work, but she'd always had a thing for his long, ropy physique. Seeing him like this was distracting.

"Have you ever considered instituting Bikini Fridays at the hospital?" he said, musingly. "It would be great for staff morale."

"_Why are you here, House_?"

"Taking a vacation," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Same as you."

"This is my vacation House. Go find your own."

"But I like yours. It's filled with. . . possibilities." He raised his eyebrows.

"Did it ever occur to you that one of the reasons I'm taking this vacation is to GET AWAY FROM YOU?"

"Actually, no," he said, considering it.

He grabbed a tub of tanning lotion that he had rolled up in his towel.

"You freckle easily in the sun, Cuddy. I think I need to apply another coat of cocoa butter."

"I'm good. . ." she said, standing up. "In fact, I'm leaving."

"So soon?"

"I have a yoga class at noon," she said.

"Good idea," House said. "All this relaxation can be stressful."

######

She found space on the grass next to another guest and lay out her yoga mat.

The teacher walked up, bowed to class. They bowed back.

"Namaste," they said in unison.

"Excuse me, namaste, coming through, namaste . . ."

Bowing the whole time, House wove his way through the assembled yoga students, found a tiny square patch of grass next to Cuddy and plopped down, laying his cane beside him.

He had no yoga mat.

"Namaste," he said to her.

"Go away," she hissed.

"Where's your Zen, Cuddy? As a guest of this resort, I am entitled to unlimited yoga classes. It says so right in the brochure."

"You read the brochure?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Let us begin," the yoga teacher said. "We're going to start with some simple breathing exercises. Breathe in, breathe out. If you like, you can use the traditional yogic chant of 'Om.'"

Trying to block out House, Cuddy closed her eyes.

"Ommmmm," she said.

"Bzzzzzzzz," House said.

Cuddy side-eyed him.

"What are you? A bumblebee?"

"My sound is just as arbitrary as yours," he said.

"Actually, 'om' is a sacred word from Hindu. . .nevermind." A few of the other students were shooting House and Cuddy dirty looks.

The teacher was now leading the class in sun salutations. Cuddy rose, as did the rest of the class, all except for House, of course. He stayed on the grass, looking up at Cuddy's ass as she bent forward.

"Get up, House. This isn't a spectator sport," Cuddy said.

"I'm not taking the class," he said. "I'm just auditing."

"I'm pretty sure that's not allowed," Cuddy said, as she bent into a downward dog.

"But the view is so great from down here."

"Bite me."

"Oooh, with pleasure."

More dirty looks.

The yogi noticed the commotion.

"What's going on back there?" she asked.

"He's not doing the poses," Cuddy whined.

"Narc," House mouthed at her. He held up his cane pathetically. "Sometimes my handicap makes me feel left out," he said, looking sad. "You don't mind if I just sit here and participate in my own way, do you?"

The teacher smiled benevolently at him.

"Of course not," she said. "There is no wrong way to do yoga."

"Namaste," said House. He bowed deeply at the teacher and gave Cuddy a tiny wink.

######

That night, Cuddy was sitting at the hotel's seafood restaurant with Julia, Michael, and two friends of theirs—a couple who owned a small chain of yogurt shops in New Jersey.

They had finished dinner and were moving on to after-dinner drinks and Todd, the yogurt king of Jersey, was talking about his new flavor.

"It's called English Vanilla. It's not as sweet as the French vanilla, but not exactly tart either. . .it's proving to be very popular."

Cuddy tried to stifle a yawn.

Just then, the waiter walked up to the table, handed Cuddy a note scribbled on a napkin.

"From the gentleman at the bar," the waiter said.

She didn't even have to look up to know that it was House.

She read the note:

"There's a fine line between being relaxed and falling into a boredom-induced coma. Lose the stiffs and come join me at the bar for a drink."

Cuddy bit her lip, laughed.

House swiveled in his bar stool, raised his glass at her. He was wearing a white linen shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and tan trousers. He had gotten sun—just enough to give him an uncharacteristically healthy glow. He looked annoyingly gorgeous.

She raised hers back.

Julia took note.

"Who's the guy?" she said.

"He's.. . no one. Just someone I met on the beach today."

"He's hot."

"You think?" Cuddy said, trying to sound breezy about it.

"Um, yeah. Like dangerously so. Go talk to him."

"Okay," she said, shrugging, and feeling bad for lying to her sister. (Of course, explaining the truth: That it was her insane employee/one-time fling who had followed her to the Cayman Islands in a stalkerish sort of way—and that, instead of being totally mortified like any normal person would, she found the whole thing kind exciting and flattering—would just be way too complicated.) "Be right back."

She strode up to him.

He smiled triumphantly.

"Dry Belvedere martini, two olives," he said to the bartender.

_He knows my drink_.

She slid into the barstool next to him.

"Having fun?" she said.

"Always," he said.

He eyed her flowy sun dress approvingly.

"You should dress this way more often," he said. "It's flattering."

"I thought you preferred my bikini."

"That too," he said, taking a long swig of his scotch. "I like it all. Vacation Cuddy is working for me."

_So is Vacation House._

He peered over at Cuddy's table.

"I recognize Julia and Michael from the pictures on your desk," he said. "But who's Clark and Ellen Griswold?"

"That's Todd and Susan Waters. Brace yourself—they own Fro-Go Yogurt."

"Wow. In the presence of greatness."

"Ask me anything about yogurt," Cuddy said. "I know it all. Are you aware that the first frozen yogurt stand was in Boston in 1974? And were you aware that it has 20 percent fewer calories than ice cream and 30 percent less fat?"

"Fascinating."

"I know. . . and you thought I was bored. Huh!"

He smiled at her.

"Let's get out of here," he said, conspiratorially.

She laughed.

"I can't," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because. . ."

_I'm afraid to be alone with you because I don't know if I'll be able to control myself._

" . . . my dinner companions are waiting for me," she said.

As if on cue, Todd and Susan waved.

House and Cuddy waved back.

Cuddy gulped down the rest of her drink, popped up.

"I don't suppose you want to join us?" she asked gamely.

"Naa," said House, looking at his watch. "I just remembered that I have some very important flossing that I need to do."

"Your loss," she said, facing him. "I think Todd is about to explain the difference between sprinkles and jimmies."

House put his hands lightly on her waist. (Cuddy wasn't sure what annoyed her more—the presumption of his gesture or the fact that it was turning her on.)

"If you wanna come up later for a nightcap," he whispered in her ear. "I'm in room 308."

"Don't wait up," she said, adding breezily: "Thanks for the drink."

"Three. Oh. Eight!" he shouted after her.

She sashayed back to her friends, knowing he was watching her, and not caring. God damn it, that asshole could be cute when he tried.

When she got back to the table, Julia informed everyone she had to go to the bathroom and gestured for Cuddy to follow.

Girl talk.

"So?" Julia said, once they were alone. They were standing in front of the mirror, freshening their makeup. "What's his name?"

"Greg," Cuddy said.

"Ironic," Julia said. "Just like your boy wonder." (Cuddy talked about her high-maintenance star employee all the time.)

"So is he nice?"

"I wouldn't necessarily say _nice_," Cuddy said, blotting her lipstick. "Interesting."

"I can't believe you didn't leave with him," Julia said. "I've never seen you look so into someone _ever_."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm serious. Even Todd noticed. He said, 'Those two might need a yogurt to cool off.'"

"He did not!"

Julia laughed grimly.

"I'm afraid he did."

######

The next day, she was walking with Julia, Michael, and the kids into town when a scooter zoomed up alongside them.

It was House.

"Hello, fellow travelers," House said.

Everyone waved hi.

"Where you headed?"

"Brunch," Cuddy said.

"I never understood brunch," House said. "Pick a meal."

"That's what I'm always saying!" Michael said.

He and House exchanged a bro nod.

House turned to Julia.

"Would you mind terribly if I stole your sister for the afternoon?"

"That's totally up to her," Julia said.

House looked at Cuddy.

"What do you say?"

"Would I have to get on that thing?" she said, gesturing to the scooter, skeptically. She was wearing a long print skirt, a bikini top, and a light white cotton blouse that was tied at the waist.

"Afraid so," he said. "But I'll be gentle."

Cuddy scratched her head, glanced at Julia, who was giving her an encouraging look. If only she knew. . .

"Okay!" she said.

She hopped on the back of the scooter.

"Don't get into too much trouble, you two!" Julia said cheerfully.

And they zoomed off.

It was as if House was a native of the island—he drove down side streets, dirty roads, and alleys, made sharp turns and ignored signs intended for tourists.

Finally, they arrived at a rather bustling outdoor market. There were vendors selling all sorts of food—meat pies and jerk chicken and plantains—and hand-crafted jewelry and clothing. A steel drum band was playing reggae-style music. Rather noticeably, there weren't many tourists around.

"I hate all that touristy shit," House said.

They walked around together and Cuddy couldn't help it. She felt like she was hanging out with her boyfriend. She had to stop herself from taking his hand. They stopped at one booth where the vendor was selling straw hats and he made her try a bunch on and then bought her one. Later, they passed a patch of beautiful purple flowers, dotted with pale pink and white.

"Oooh, these are so beautiful," Cuddy said.

"They're Kahlalia Flowers, indigenous to the region," House said.

He was such a know-it-all.

"I'd like to fill my office with these every day," Cuddy sighed dreamily.

"That's gonna be tough because it's illegal to take the seeds across the border. Unless. . .well, I know a guy who knows a guy who could get you some."

"You know a guy? In the Cayman Islands?"

"There are guys everywhere, Cuddy," House said.

Cuddy chuckled. "Thanks anyway, House," she said. "But I'd just as soon not get busted for illegal seed smuggling."

"I figured so much," House said, with a shrug.

They got lunch—a platter of jerk chicken with peas and rice— and stopped to listen to the steel drum band.

Some local women were dancing to the music and they gestured for Cuddy to join them, but she declined.

"She's too uptight to dance," House explained.

Cuddy glared at him, took off her blouse somewhat defiantly, tossed it at him—she was now just wearing that bikini top and long skirt—and joined the women, raising her hands above her head and shaking her hips to the music. She was laughing, in a light-hearted sort of way.

The crowd cheered her on.

House watched her, with a mixture of amusement, surprise, and longing. He'd never seen this side of Cuddy—girlish, playful, sexy. The contrast between power-suited alpha bitch Cuddy and hip-shaking Caribbean queen Cuddy was almost too much to take. He wanted to be inside this woman in the worst way.

The song ended and Cuddy gave a little curtsey to her new fans.

She skipped back over to House triumphantly. Her cheeks were flushed. He still had her shirt, but had no intention of giving it back (he had shoved it in his knapsack.) Her taut stomach was glistening with a fine mist of sweat.

"Who's uptight now?" she said.

"Certainly not you," he said.

"And don't you forget it."

"No ma'am."

They continued to walk, until they came across an elderly woman with her hair wrapped elaborately in a scarf, who offered to tell Cuddy's fortune.

"I don't think that's a very . . ."

"How much?" House said, pulling out his wallet.

"$50 American dollars," the woman said.

"That's highway robbery!" House complained, but he handed over the money.

The old woman led them toward a little booth behind a curtain she had set up, with two chairs and a small table. She beckoned Cuddy to join her behind the curtain.

House started to follow.

"No," the woman said. "Boyfriend can't come."

"You must be quite a psychic because I'm not her boyfriend," House said.

"Whatever you are. Can't come. Need complete privacy."

House rolled his eyes. If he'd known he couldn't witness Cuddy's reading, he wouldn't have shelled out the cash.

Cuddy shrugged, smiled apologetically and followed the old woman into her lair.

The woman, whose name was Miss Rita, held out her hands, palms up, and gestured for Cuddy to do the same.

She took Cuddy's hands, inspected them.

"You are very good at your job," she said. "People respect you. They admire your strength. They even fear you a little."

"Thank you," Cuddy said.

The old woman ignored her.

"But you are very unfulfilled in matters of the heart."

Cuddy shrugged in a "who isn't?" sort of way.

"You've had little success with men, because you always pick the wrong man."

"Tell me about it," Cuddy said.

"You think you want a man like yourself. A man who is reasonable, professional, who follows rules. But what you need is someone who has adventure in his heart, who cares not what other people think. A man who scares you a little, who challenges you, who excites you. . ."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes, looked over her shoulder.

"Did House put you up to this?"

"Who's House?" Miss Rita said, continuing to peer at Cuddy's hand.

The old woman went on to read Cuddy's lifeline—long—and predict her financial prospects for the future—solid—and repeated that Cuddy could have personal success to go along with professional success if she would only learn to let go. Then she thanked her for the session, told her to tell her friends about Miss Rita, and said goodbye.

House was waiting under a palm tree. He had bought—or perhaps bartered for—a small wooden flute-type instrument and he was blowing into it, trying to get a good sound.

He looked up when he saw her.

"Good lord, woman, I thought I was going to have to call the American Embassy," he said. "Or Scully. . .How was your session. Is your future so bright you gotta wear shades?"

"Don't play dumb House," Cuddy said.

"Huh?"

"How much did you pay that woman to say those things to me."

"50 American bucks. Or, as I like to call it, my first expense report when I get back to Jersey."

"And there was no money on the side?" Cuddy said. "No little conversation where you told her exactly what to say to me?"

House scratched his head.

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. Why? What did she say?"

She squinted at him, skeptically, then shook her head.

"Nothing. Forget it. It's getting late. Let's get back to the hotel."  
#####


	2. Chapter 2

**A note from ATD: Based on the comments, I think everyone expected it to be all fun and games from here on out. But it's House and Cuddy. There has to be some drama, right? (Also, I can't seem to do Season 3 without a tiny swipe at Cameron, so I apologize in advance.) (Not really.) ;)**

By the time they got back to the resort, it was already dark out.

House cut the engine and they both hopped off the scooter.

"Thanks. That was really fun," Cuddy said.

"More fun than brunch?" he asked, teasingly.

"More fun than brunch."

He bent toward her.

"So why not spend the rest of the evening with me?" he said. "Fun is my middle name."

"I thought it was Edward," Cuddy said.

"Crap. I forgot, you have access to HR files."

And they grinned at each other.

"So . . . tonight?" he egged on.

"I can't," Cuddy said, reluctantly. "I'm supposed to have dinner with the family."

"Actually, Miss Rita prophesied that dinner with your family was going to suck."

She laughed, got on her tip-toes and gave him a slightly lingering kiss on the cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow House."

He shrugged, adorably.

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

######

Cuddy felt restless. She tried to focus on the dinner conversation but found her thoughts drifting again and again to House—how sweetly attentive he had been when he watched her try on those hats; how sexy he looked on the back of that scooter (especially when his t-shirt rippled in the wind); and, of course, what Miss Rita had said. The old psychic may've been batshit crazy but she was also right. Maybe it _was _time Cuddy stopped playing it safe and followed her heart.

It was 10:30—Julia and Michael were getting ready to head back up to their room.

"Stay for one more drink?" Cuddy asked, almost pleadingly. She was looking for a distraction. Anything to keep her from doing what she knew she was about to do.

"We can't," Julia said. "Babysitter turns into a pumpkin at 11. Besides, I don't know about Michael, but I'm bushed."

"Exhausted," Michael said, stretching extravagantly.

They all kissed goodnight and Cuddy watched them leave the restaurant. She was by herself.

_Just go to your room, Lisa. Just go to your room_. . .

But, of course, she found herself getting off on the third floor.

There was surprisingly loud music—a kind of calypso reggae style—blaring from his room.

Then she heard what she thought were voices—and a woman's laugh?—but maybe it was just on TV.

She cautiously knocked.

A scantily clad blonde answered the door.

"Welcome to my den of iniquity," she slurred.

"I. . .must have the wrong room."

"You lookin' for Greg?" the blonde said.

"Who are you?" Cuddy said, taken aback.

"I'm Tiffany. And you are. . .?"

Cuddy looked inside, mortified.

There were about 5 young women in the room, all in various states of undress—one was playing a video game in her underwear, two were on the bed making out. A third girl was standing next to the bed, between House's legs—she was whispering something in his ear and looked like she was about to mount him. He was way too involved in her performance to notice Cuddy at the door.

Cuddy just stood there, her mouth agape. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"You coming in or what, honey?" Tiffany said, impatiently.

"No," Cuddy said and began running down the hallway—trying to get as far away as quickly as possible.

Tiffany closed the door and turned to House.

"Honey, I think you just got busted by your wife," she said.

House looked at her.

"My _wife_?"

"A woman just came to the door and she looked real upset."

"Petite brunette?" House said, feeling a bit frantic. "Great figure? Adorable line of freckles on her nose from the sun?"

"I don't know about the freckles but the rest fits."

"Shit!"

He stood up so abruptly, he knocked the girl off his lap.

He limped quickly into the hallway.

"Cuddy!" he yelled.

She had already made it to the elevator. She pressed the button several times, ignored him.

"Cuddy!" he yelled again. He was walking so fast, his leg buckled a bit.

But the elevator gods were not on his side. The door opened and she got in.

He knew she was on the 7th floor. He made a calculation.

He took the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the searing pain in his leg.

Out of breath and almost dizzy with pain, he managed to arrive at Cuddy's room at the exact same moment she did.

"Did you just take the stairs?" she said when she saw him. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I need to . . . sit," he said, sliding onto the floor.

"Of course you need to sit, you shouldn't be taking stairs at all, let alone running them."

"Why'd you leave?" he said, still trying to catch his breath.

"I think we both know the answer to that."

"Then let me rephrase the question: Why'd you come?"

"I thought we could. . . have a nightcap together," she said, feeling foolish.

"We still can," he said.

"No, we can't," she said, firmly.

"Why? Because of the bimbos?"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed. "And yes, because of the. . . women in your room."

"Who cares about them?"

"I do."

"But why? You told me you weren't coming over. I was just bored. Just looking to blow off some steam."

"Blow being the operative word," she muttered.

He ignored her.

"I'll kick them out. Or we can go to the bar. Just. . .hang out with me, Cuddy. _Please_."

"The mood has passed. Goodnight, House."

He struggled to stand up, thinking she would help him. She didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, lamely, once he managed to get to his feet.

"Me too, House," she said, using her card key to open the door. "You have no idea how much."

He gave her a pathetic look as she slammed the door in his face.

"Fuck," House said.

He took the elevator back down to his room.

The party was still raging on.

The minute he walked through the door, one of the girls draped herself all over him. He shook her off, somewhat violently, then walked to the stereo and turned it off.

"Party's over," he said.

There were groans.

"C'mon Greggy," Tiffany said. "The night is young."

"No, the night is over. Everyone. Out."

He grabbed the remote control from video game girl ("But I was on level 12!" she protested) and began collecting shoes and skirts and bras from the floor, throwing them all into the hallway.

"Now!" he said, angrily.

"Whoa dude, you really need to learn to relax," one of the girls said.

######

Cuddy didn't see House all the next day, but the following day, she was alone on the beach—Julia and her family were sightseeing—and he limped up to her.

He dragged another beach chair beside her, lay down on it. But he was a lot less cocky this time, somewhat chastened.

"Talking to me yet?" he asked mopily.

Cuddy ignored him, shifted her position a bit, so her back was facing him.

"I assume that's _not_ an invitation to rub tanning lotion on your back?" he said.

She didn't answer.

"You do realize that you're giving me a particularly excellent view of your ass right now, don't you?"

"Go away, House."

"Not until you tell me why you're so pissed."

"The fact that you don't know is exactly _why_ I'm so pissed."

"But we had such a great day together," he said. "I mean, I don't know about you, but it was, like, a Top 10 all-time great day for me. And I was all wound up . . ."

Suddenly, a loud scream came from the beach. It sounded like a young boy.

"What was that?" Cuddy said.

But House ignored it.

"I just didn't feel like being alone, ya know? If I'd known you were coming over, I never would have . . ."

The screaming grew louder, and was now joined by a woman's scream.

"Will somebody shut those people up!" House bellowed. He turned back to Cuddy.

"If I could do it all over again, I'd. . ."

"We need a doctor!" someone yelled.

House rolled his eyes, turned to the commotion.

"Great," he said.

A boy—about 11 or 12 years old—was on the shore, writhing in pain. His was scream one. His mother, a slightly overweight 50ish woman in an ugly bathing suit, was scream two. A small crowd had gathered around them.

"Perfect," House said.

He got up from his chair, limped over to the scene. Cuddy followed.

"Are you a doctor?" the woman said.

"That's what the diploma from the Grand Cayman Correspondence School says," House said.

"My son! He's been bitten by something."

"Yeah, kinda gathered that, what with the blood-curdling screams and all."

House looked up and down the beach.

"Where's that cute little lifeguard girl?"

All the bystanders pointed to the water. She was several yards away, apparently rescuing some first-time boogie boarder who had swum out too far.

"Of course. Thirty people on this beach and two emergencies have to happen at once," House muttered.

He knelt next to the boy, who was still screaming. "Well, we know his lung function is normal," he said. "What's your name, kid?"

"Connor," the boy said, between gasps.

"Connor, it looks like you've been stung by a stingray. So the first thing we're going to do is remove the stinger."

"No!" said Connor's mother, mortified. "That's what killed that crocodile hunter guy!"

House looked at her like he had never encountered such idiocy in his life.

"The stingray bit him in _the chest_. Your son has been bit on the foot. You see the difference?"

"I'm not sure. . ." the mother said. "Are you really a doctor? Your degree doesn't sound all that reputable."

"He was just kidding," Cuddy said, reassuringly. "He graduated from Hopkins and he's one of the best doctors in the country."

"She says that to all the best doctors in the country," House said.

He pointed to a long haired, rail thin teenage boy who was watching the action.

"Hey kid, make yourself useful. You see that first aid kit on the lifeguard stand? Get it for me."

"Uh, okay."

The teen ran off, happy to be of some use, and returned a few minutes later with the kit.

"Alright, ready Connor?" House said. "We're going to take it out right now. It's gonna hurt like hell."

"It already hurts like hell," Connor said.

House smiled at him.

"But you're Chuck Norris, right kid? You laugh in the face of pain."

"I'm Chuck Norris," the kid said, unconvincingly.

"Ready? One. . . two. . . three!"

Connor screamed even louder as House yanked out the stinger and immediately doused the injury with disinfectant.

"I have it on good authority that when Chuck Norris had his stinger removed, he screamed much louder," House said.

Connor, who was coated in sweat, laughed grimly.

"Aren't we supposed to pee on it or somethin'?" the lanky teen said.

"No, that's a jellyfish you moron. This is a stingray. Now Connor, I need you to bury your foot under the sand, that's right. As deep as possible. Now you, urine boy—" he turned to the teen—"I need you to run back to the hotel and get me a bucket of hot water. Not lukewarm, not tepid, but hot, got that?"

"Yes sir!"

"The sooner we get that foot in hot water, the less pain and less chance of infection—so hurry."

The teen ran off, just as the pretty young lifeguard, who had successfully rescued the boogie boarder, came rushing over.

"I was out in the surf," she said breathlessly. "I didn't even see what was happening here."

She crouched down next to Connor.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"Better now," Connor said, smiling at her.

"You're pretty brave, you know that?" She ruffled Connor's hair. "But it looks like you're in capable hands." She smiled gratefully at House. "I'm going to go check in with Kelly Slater."

She trotted away—both Connor and House watched her run, tilting their heads in unison to get a better angle.

The teenager came back with a bucketful of water.

House looked at it in disgust.

"You see those bubbles, genius?"

"Yeah," the kid said.

"This is _boiling water_. You want to add second-degree burns to Connor's problems?"

"No doc."

"Here's what your going to do," House said. "Wait 10 minutes. Make sure the water is cool enough. You stick your own hand in it. No, wait"—he turned to the Connor's mother— "you stick _your_ hand in it. Urine boy here seems a bit. . . blunted, if you know what I mean. When it's still really hot but _not boiling_, have Connor here dunk his foot in. He needs to keep that foot immersed in hot water for at least two hours, got it?"

The mother nodded.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked.

"He's going to be fine." Then House leaned down toward Connor. "But if you wanted to get the attention of the pretty lifeguard, there were plenty of better ways to do it."

Connor smiled sheepishly, then grimaced. He was still in serious pain.

"My work here is done," House said, doffing an imaginary cowboy hat.

"I'm super attractive when I'm all heroic and shit, aren't I?" he said, turning to Cuddy.

But she was gone.

#######

That night, Cuddy was sitting by herself at the bar—Julia and Michael were having a romantic dinner for two—when a blonde woman tapped her on the shoulder.

"I know you," she said.

"I'm sorry?" Cuddy said.

"You're the lady from the other night, from Greg's room."

Of course. Tiffany. She was apparently prowling the bar for lonely men.

"I gotta go," Cuddy said, standing.

"You sure have that boy twisted up in knots," Tiffany said.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm talking about Greg. . .One minute we're all laughing and playing and having a grand ol' time and then you show up and he's Mr. Grouchy Pants, kicking us out, yelling at us, moping around like someone stole his favorite toy."

"You don't say."

"Yeah. . .I do say. You need to give the boy a break, you know? He's got it bad for you."

Is she a hooker . . . or a matchmaker, Cuddy thought, ironically.

"I'll . . . take that under advisement," she said.

####

Her hand stayed poised on the door of Room 308 for what seemed like an extremely long time. Finally, she knocked.

House opened the door. He looked shocked, almost humbled to see her. He was wearing sun-faded red shorts and a white vintage tee-shirt with a surfer print.

"Cuddy?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?"

"Of course!"

He stepped aside. He was alone. There was no music, no TV, no girls. He had been lying in bed reading a spy novel.

"Can I get you a drink?" he said.

"That would be nice."

He went to the mini bar, made two vodka tonics.

"There's no vermouth," he said, apologetically, handing her the drink.

They sat down, side by side, on the bed.

"Cuddy, I'm sorry about the other night. . ."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize," she said. "I overreacted."

"No, it was my . . .I mean, if I'd known you were coming over, I never would've . . .It's just that I. . ."

Uncharacteristically, he was fumbling for his words. He looked at her, smiled slightly. "Nevermind that. You're here now."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm here now."

They clinked glasses, drank.

"You did good today, on the beach, with that boy," Cuddy said.

"He was a good kid. His mother was a nouveau riche nightmare. But he was alright."

"You made him laugh, which was just what he needed."

House smiled. Then he looked at her, rather intently.

"We all need different things," he said.

She swallowed.

"Yeah," she said.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said.

_So do you._

"Thanks" she said. She looked down, suddenly shy.

He took her glass from her—put it down on the nightstand—and stared into her eyes.

Then he took her hands, began to stroke her palm.

"I see a very satisfying experience in your future," he said, fortune-teller style.

She knew what was coming next. _Wanted_ what was coming next.

He kissed her. A very light kiss, on the mouth.

"House, I don't know if we should. . ."

"We should," he said. He kissed her again, with a little more heat.

The combination of the hot softness of his tongue and the roughness of his unshaven jaw was intoxicating.

She kissed back, couldn't help it. Their bodies were beginning to interlock.

"But you work for me. . ." she said, lamely.

"Let me work _on_ you," he said, nibbling her lip, crawling on top of her.

"You can't tell anyone we were together," she breathed. "No one can know."

He brushed some hair off her neck, kissed her throat.

"Cuddy, you can't even relax when you're about to have sex," he chuckled.

"Who said we're about to have. . . " but she was losing her focus, because he was now unbuttoning her blouse and kissing between her breasts.

"Shhhhh," he said.

He unclasped her bra, began to slowly fondle her breasts, cupping them softly in his hands. His thumb was playing with her nipples.

"Relax Cuddy," he whispered.

His took one breast in his mouth, curled his tongue over the nipple. Then did the same to the other.

"Relax," he cooed.

"I'm. . .I'm. . . ." she said. But she had apparently lost the power of speech.

His hands moved slowly, reverentially over her entire body—her waist, her neck, her shoulders. He spent a particularly long time lavishing attention on her ass.

"My God, you feel soooooo good," he moaned.

His mouth migrated down her stomach, to her hips—the sensation of his mouth, his tongue, his stubbled chin against her flesh was driving her crazy—then he parted her legs and began to kiss her inner thighs.

"Mmmmm. . .ahhhh. . . . mmmmm. . . " she said, which was the best she could do at this point.

"Cuddy, I'm going to relax the fuck out of you," he said.

And his face disappeared between her thighs.

#####

They were able to have sex two more times before the vacation ended—once in broad daylight (it had started with House rubbing tanning lotion on Cuddy's back on the beach and ended with them having sex against a wall behind the cabana station) and once again, in his room, where she made a point of returning House's "relaxation" favor.

And then suddenly, the vacation was over.

She was in the lobby with Julia, Michael and the kids and the bellman was taking their luggage to the cab.

"Dr. Cuddy?" the concierge said. "Dr. House left this for you."

He handed her a Cayman Islands mug—the kind of tacky thing you would get in a hotel gift shop. Inside was a tiny baggy of seeds. Kahlalia seeds.

There was a handwritten note: "Seize the day."

Cuddy considered throwing the seeds out, then changed her mind, zipped them up into the pocket of her purse.

Julia was glaring at her accusingly.

"Did he just say _Dr. House_?"

#####

Two days later, Cuddy was back at PPTH. She felt like she had to physically readjust to her old self—to the fast-paced rhythms of her work, to the almost obsessive energy that fueled her. A week at the beach, with House, had completely recalibrated her.

She hadn't seen him since she got back, but as luck would have it, she had a case.

She walked up to House's office.

His team was already assembled in the DDx room, but no sign of House.

"Where's bossman?" she said.

"He went to Virginia for a week to visit his parents," Foreman said. "He's due back today."

"Ah," Cuddy said.

"Wow. You look amazing, Dr. Cuddy," Chase said, with a whistle. "Your vacation obviously agreed with you."

"Thanks," Cuddy said.

"I'd kill for that tan," Cameron chuckled.

"Spend a week in the Caribbean and you can have one too!"

Just then, House showed up.

"Hey, the gang's all here," he said, nervously, putting his knapsack down on the table.

"How was Virginia?" Cameron asked.

"Unbelievably great," he said, looking at Cuddy out of the corner of his eye.

Foreman squinted at him.

"So where'd _your_ tan come from?" he said. "It's the middle of December."

"Winter tans," House improvised. "It's a thing."

"Need you for a second," Cuddy said hastily, to rescue him. She pulled him into the hall.

Foreman, Chase, and Cameron exchanged a look.

"Raise your hand if you believe that he was in Virginia," Chase said.

Cameron was the only one to raise her hand.

Foreman and Chase looked at her.

"Winter tans," she said hopefully. "It's a thing."

In the hallway, Cuddy handed House a file.

"This is an actual case," she said. "But I also just wanted to say. . . thank you. As stalkers go, you're top shelf."

"You're welcome," he said. "As stalkees go, you're wonderfully compliant."

"And just for the record, after a mere week in your presence, I'm officially a slut _and_ an international seed smuggler."

"Then my work here is done," House said.

"God," Cuddy said, smiling coyly. "I hope not."

THE END


End file.
